


when the fire burns low

by Neffectual



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Anal Sex, Bear School (The Witcher), Cat School (The Witcher), Courting Rituals, Crane School (The Witcher), F/M, Free Use, Free Use Jaskier, Gangbang, Griffin School (The Witcher), Group Sex, Kaer Morhen, Kaer Morhen's Fanon Hot Springs (The Witcher), M/M, Manticore School (The Witcher), Multi, Oral Sex, Pegging, Polyamory, Public Sex, Sexually Available Jaskier, Wall Sex, Winter At Kaer Morhen, Witcher Courtship, Witchersexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Wolf School (The Witcher)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27443017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: Jaskier has slowly watched Kaer Morhen become a place of peace for all sorts of Witchers, a best-kept secret for their place of safety and warmth. And now, he's become a part of that, a part of the welcome home, a part of the reason so many Witchers head up the Killer before the first snows fall.aka the soft gangbang fic
Relationships: Aiden/Jaskier | Dandelion, Aiden/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert, Aiden/Lambert (The Witcher), Coën/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Auckes/Serrit, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion/Lambert/Vesemir, Gaetan/Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet, Gaetan/Letho/Original Character(s), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Original Character(s), Jaskier | Dandelion/Other Witcher(s)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 246





	when the fire burns low

**Author's Note:**

  * For [round_robin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/gifts).



> Arris, Zerrin and Terrik are from [The Feast by Aroomie](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26359186)  
> Grayson is from [Cabinet of Curiosities by RawkinJD & round_robin](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25553989)  
> The Vipers adoring Eskel is from [A Viper's Wolf by RawrkinJD](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26815471)  
> Aster is mine.

For a season so usually dark and gloomy, Jaskier had come to love the winter, now that he had a certain place he’d be staying, now that he knew where he’d be for the duration. Going up to Kaer Morhen with Geralt that first time had been the best choice he’d ever made, and not just because it got Geralt to confess to harbouring affection for him. The awe of being trusted to spend his winters in the last standing keep of the Witchers hadn’t slipped away yet, that he, someone who sang gossip for a living, was allowed to be there without anyone even having to tell him to keep his mouth closed about the secrets there.

It probably helped that, now, he was one of those well-kept secrets that only Witchers knew, and never spoke of on the Path. And didn’t that fill him with pride and love, to be considered a secret worth keeping, for as many seasons as they could have him.

The first few days were always a gentle dance of courtship; Witchers returning and greeting him, then going to sleep like the dead for a few days, or testing that they were still welcome, that their safe harbour was still open for them. Geralt was the only one still so sure, every time, that his touch would be welcome, and Jaskier loved that with the heat of flame burning pitch; the certainty of those hands on his hips, of kisses pressed to his mouth and hair, of fingers at the back of his neck. It had taken so many years for Geralt to learn that he could always touch his companion, and Jaskier would never take that sure grip for granted, especially when it was the only one like it.

The Wolves were always the first to start the delicate art of courting, in their own ways; Eskel with poetry, soft words and books found while he had been on the path; Lambert with tales of heroics in places Jaskier had never travelled, and showing off new scars; Vesemir with favourite foods and floral oils for baths. The old wolf was always the second to touch, after Geralt, often offering to rub Jaskier’s sore feet while they sat by the fire of an evening, ensuring the bard had the best chair closest to the fire as he listened to whatever stories were told. The first few times, Jaskier had gone to Vesemir first as a mark of respect, but in the later years, he chose the older wolf deliberately. After all, he spent the other three seasons alone, mostly in the keep, and couldn’t seek succour in the way the others could find in brothels. He readied the keep for them all, kept it habitable, kept their home safe, and Jaskier would always thank him in every way that he could for that labour of love.

It wasn’t often that all the Wolves were home at the same time – or rather, Vesemir, Geralt, Eskel and Lambert would always be home, but Gweld, Gwen, Aubry, Gardis, Clovis, and Frank were all rarer, less likely to be there for winter, and even less likely to come to bed in what Jaskier always considered to be the pack bed. Lambert explained that most of the classes of trainees had split into packs, although they sometimes took in those from younger classes if few survived, or older Wolves would integrate with younger packs if they came back in winter and found they were the only one or two left. That was how he’d ended up with Geralt and Eskel, and then Vesemir had been invited to join them when they realised his pack – Rennes, Barmin, and Sorel – were all gone too. Jaskier loved all of his Witchers, truly and deeply, but he had a special love for Geralt and his pack, as the first to welcome him to their home, and the first to love him.

It was the small core pack of Wolves he tended to sleep with, too, Geralt reluctant to have him out of sight for an entire night, and also reluctant to sleep next to anyone other than his pack. Sometimes, when Jaskier had been spread out and fucked hard, he wobbled back to the big pack bed on shaking legs, and let Geralt undress him and soothe the damage, licking at his puffy, red rim until he was no longer leaking seed, before wrapping him up in blankets to be held. If they woke the others, Lambert and Eskel would join in, kissing and stroking any part of Jaskier they could reach, trying to rile him up and drag one last orgasm out of him before they let him sleep. If he seemed too tired, or too sore, Vesemir would step in, holding Jaskier to his chest and letting the rumbling purr rock him to sleep, finger gently brushing through his chest hair as he was cradled like something precious and breakable. The rest of the Wolves would pile in, hands apologetic and soft, cradling him until he drifted off to sleep, safe and content in the arms of his beloveds.

After the Wolves came the Cats, usually led by Aiden, because he and Lambert were so often joined at the hip that it was rarer to see them apart than it was to see them together. While the Wolves had adjusted their courtship for Jaskier’s sensibilities, back when he’d thought those were important, the Cats hadn’t, and it was a sure sign of the coming snows when Jaskier woke to Aiden on the bed, kneading the sheets and purring, a large goose or fat pheasant dangling from his mouth, the Wolves having left for training with the dawn. He would drop it when Jaskier beckoned him closer to pet his hair, rub behind his ears and praise him for being such a good hunter, before sliding under the blankets to doze lightly, much like his school’s namesake. Sometimes he’d bring Gaetan with him, and a larger prey item, the two of them pouncing on each other in a play battle as to who would get to lie closest to him, who would get the coveted scritches, who got to lay their head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat, and Jaskier would laugh at their antics until they got too much, and then call them to his bed.

Sometimes they would come when called, and sometimes they wouldn’t, because that was the way of Cats, but if they were bouncing off the walls and leaping into the rafters, Jaskier would usually shoo them out to go find some Vipers or Wolves to fuck some of the excess energy out of them before they returned to his bed. On the colder days, Jaskier would find the Cats glued to his side, along with what looked like half the blankets in the keep, and occasionally their lovers, too. Both Aiden and Gaetan seemed to be oddities in their school, to prefer to keep company with Wolves and Vipers than their own, but they were both delightfully sweet to Jaskier. Geralt had twitched a little, the first few times he’d found the three of them in bed together, but had slowly come to realise that they meant the bard no harm. In fact, they were probably the second most possessive ones over Jaskier’s time and bed, after the Wolves themselves, and routinely made sure Jaskier was well-bathed and fed before twining around him, asking for something a little more intimate. They were easy to love, Jaskier found, with their softness underneath their coiled spring tempers and mercurial moods, and it grew even easier when he got to watch them with other lovers.

The Vipers tended to come up the mountain around the same time as the Cats, but also kept to themselves for several days before venturing out. Of all the schools, they seemed to feel the cold most fiercely, and Jaskier knew for a fact that if it weren’t for Gaetan, Letho would find somewhere else to winter, and if Auckes and Serrit weren’t so taken with Eskel, they’d be enjoying a tropical temperature, rather than the frigid mountains surrounding Kaer Morhen. The first time they approached Jaskier for the winter would usually be in the hot springs, the three of them winding around his body as if he was a great prey animal, leeching his heat and enjoying the slide of their skin against his. Their favourite manner of courtship seemed to be jewels; gods knew how they ended up with so many, and Jaskier wasn’t about to ask, but they never came to him with less than a necklace and a few rings, pieces in silver and gold, rubies and emeralds. They were fine with him selling most of it, because Witchers were, at their core, a practical bunch, but whenever they happened upon something with sapphires, he kept it. The Vipers weren’t a sentimental bunch, but giving him jewels that made them think of his eyes was as loud a declaration of love as Jaskier would ever need from them.

As lovers, though, they were varied and interesting, and Jaskier would never get tired of how Letho held him, as if he were made of glass, as if his cock was something that could end the world if he weren’t careful. Auckes and Serrit were rougher, liking to leave bites and marks, enjoying tying him up and using each end until he was sobbing and begging to come, every nerve in his body singing for them and only them. Jaskier’s favourite was to watch them with others, to see the love in their faces, just like when they looked at him. Auckes and Serrit, wrapped around Eskel, pressing him to further heights of pleasure and passion, reminding him how beautiful he was and that he was a jewel to be treasured. They brought him amber and gold, draping him with it until he was decorated to their liking, then ravished him, making it clear that they thought of his as their greatest treasure. Letho spent his time between Gaetan and a Crane, Arris, balancing one on each massive thigh as they sat together, the Cat and the Crane kissing from time to time, both relaxed against Letho’s broad chest. He was such a mountain of a man, so coarse and rough, but Jaskier had seen him holding Arris like he meant the entire Continent, or soothing Gaetan through an attack of sensory overload, and knew that the man had a huge heart, too, as befitted one of his stature. His huge hands on Jaskier’s hips, the way he could wrap his fingers around Jaskier’s wrists; all of it was beautiful and overwhelming and made Jaskier gasp with want every time he realised the sheer size and strength difference between them, and how Letho dwarfed everyone else in the keep. Once, Jaskier had walked in on Letho standing on the table, Arris on his shoulders, and Gaetan clinging to a beam, having got himself stuck, and stood there, amazed at the calm patience the Viper exuded, until he had Gaetan back in his arms, and held him tightly, back muscles twitching as the only things belying his fear.

Arris was the only Crane who tended to make his way to Kaer Morhen, and Jaskier suspected that if he hadn’t been Letho’s lover, he would never have stayed. Like their namesake, Cranes tended to be flighty, tended to struggle with feeling trapped in one place for too long, but Arris had made his nest with a Viper and a Cat, so he clearly wasn’t the most typical of his school. He did like the higher towers, though, his lean, long body making climbing easy for him; Letho would tell tales of hunts at sea, Arris perched in the rigging, making himself at home settled across a mast that would never take Letho’s weight. He clearly enjoyed seeing the world from a higher perspective, and it wasn’t unusual to see him as a tiny speck on a distant tower, perfectly still, surveying everything within his sight. He was a solitary creature, too, even more so than the Bears, who didn’t like other Witchers, but seemed to enjoy the company of humans. Arris enjoyed his solitude, his silence, his privacy, and so when he chose to sit next to Jaskier in the library, one hand idly stroking the bard’s ankle, it meant more than any of the Wolves throwing themselves into his lap.

Arris had the fewest scars of any Witcher Jaskier had ever seen naked, and that was becoming a larger number with every winter that passed, but also seemed to be uniquely body-shy, nervous to be seen, presumably by anyone other than Letho and Gaetan. But there was a softness in the way he sat with Jaskier in the room that had been designated the music room – far enough away that it wasn’t going to bother sleeping Witchers, acoustics just right for what Jaskier wanted – and would occasionally open his mouth to sing or hum along with whatever Jaskier as playing or composing, showing an ear for music Jaskier rarely found outside of others in his profession. On cold nights, when the storms were too deep for Arris to venture to his towers, he would sing with Jaskier, or on special occasions, to Jaskier, with a soft, melodic voice that could bring tears to the eyes. And then Jaskier would kiss him, and the two of them would retire to bed, where Jaskier would treasure the chance to see his Crane naked, to touch all that unmarked skin, to tangle his hands in that soft blond hair, to adore and honour him with every movement. He was strange, and he was shy, and he was quiet, but he was still one of Jaskier’s Witchers, and would receive the same love as the others.

The Bears were more of an enigma even than the Crane, with their seeming dislike even for each other that was so uncommon in the rest of the schools. The didn’t enjoy the other Witchers near them, nor the company of their own school, but the two who visited often seemed to enjoy Jaskier greatly. There was Grayson, barrel-chested and neatly-furred, who knew exactly what he looked like and what it could get him, and Zerrin, who was slower and softer-spoken than his schoolmate, but no less broad and hairy, and they were the only school not to share Jaskier between them whatsoever, having little interest in sharing beds with each other. Their courtships started with furs and heavy winter coats, nicely woven blankets and sturdy boots, clothing for outfitting a human bard for deep winter in the mountains and keeping his bed warm and cosy. Then, they’d vanish to sleep for at least a moon’s cycle, hibernating just like their namesakes, and crawling back out only for food and the drive to mate. Though neither was particularly aggressive as a whole, if one Bear had claimed Jaskier’s attention for the night, the other could be relied upon to be growly and grumpy until Jaskier was free to go to him and soothe him. It had never quite come to a brawl between the two of them, Grayson tending to step down if Zerrin challenged him – the Bear was older than Vesemir, even, though he didn’t look it – but there was always an edge of tension whenever they passed each other in the halls.

The two of them loved their rest, their sleep, and their lounging; sometimes they slept more than the Cats, making up for three seasons of wakefulness on the Path, three seasons of lean pickings and eating berries to survive. They tended to head out into the cold to hunt, claiming they felt it less keenly than the other schools, and bring back large deer to sate their need for the iron meat brought. In bed, they could not have been more different; Grayson kept his hair trimmed and his body clean, and did whatever Jaskier wanted, whether that was to be fucked hard and fast, or to be treasured and held like something precious among the furs and blankets his Bears brought him. Grayson would always take himself off to bathe before he saw Jaskier, ensuring every part of him was groomed and washed to perfection before he presented himself as a bed partner. Zerrin, on the other hand, liked to keep things gentle, always aware of his strength and how vulnerable Jaskier was beneath him. They usually started their winter affair in the bath, where Jaskier could comb through all the hair on his body and trim it to his liking. Zerrin didn’t bother to trim, only brush and keep his hair from matting, but Jaskier had only had to mention once that he wanted to help the old Bear in the bath, and it became a winter routine. They spent their time in the hot springs as often as they could, while Grayson and Jaskier kept to the Bear’s chambers, curled together in the warmth of his nest. The biggest similarity was in the noises they made, the soft chuffing sounds of contentment and pleasure as they nuzzled against Jaskier, rubbing their scent into his skin.

There were rumours that Coën might have been the last Griffin, and while Jaskier never asked about that, because there might not be many manners Witchers kept to, but that was too much even for them, he certainly seemed like an older breed of Witcher, although Jaskier had been told numerous times that they weren’t any older then the Wolves, just more sure-footed on courtly manners and matters. Coën’s courtship had been slow and steady; it took three winters before he could even look at Jaskier in the baths, never mind ask to touch. It was sweet and lovely, but when Jaskier finally caught his eye and invited him to sit with him, he hadn’t expected Coën to panic and turn tail, leaving too quickly for Jaskier to stop him. Worried he’d pushed too far, Jaskier went to Coën’s room with a bottle of wine, an apology for being too bold, imagining that every Witcher would want him. But when Coën opened the door, he invited Jaskier in, and hesitantly offered him a scroll. On it had been a statement of intent, and both Geralt and Vesemir had signed it, just like a noble marriage contract. Coën bowed, and Jaskier felt his heart in his throat, tears springing, unbidden, to his eyes. That Coën had cared enough to ask to court him, to take that extra step and write up a proper contract of intent – it made him feel special, in the way nobles were supposed to feel special.

Once the intent was stated, Coën began to court Jaskier in earnest, taking five winters to slowly gift him small things that the others didn’t often think of – paper, ink, quills, rosin for his lute, new strings, and once, memorably, a virginal. Jaskier had no idea how Coën got it up the mountain, and the cold wasn’t kind to it, but the look in Coën’s eyes when Jaskier played was always worth the effort it took to tune. It took him a little while to realise that the virginal had been the most transparent and honest of Coën’s gifts, and that he was trying, in his own way, to tell Jaskier something. Coën’s courtly manners and chivalrous sense of decorum had never allowed him to visit a brothel, as many of his fellows had, nor had he ever had time to properly court someone. He was untouched and wanted Jaskier to be the first person he took to his bed, an honour Jaskier was not about to turn down. So they moved slowly, working their way up from simply sitting beside each other, to kissing, to gentle touches, until Jaskier was certain that Coën knew what he wanted.

Falling into bed with Coën for the first time had been an experience unlike any other, with Coën’s gentle nature and open heart, the way he chased Jaskier’s pleasure more firmly than his own, how his hands were so soft on Jaskier, never marking, never bruising. The discovery that Coën chirred when Jaskier rubbed his back, that he trilled when rubbed behind the ears, and purred with a deep contentment in the afterglow were all thrilling to Jaskier, and he enjoyed drawing those noises out of Coën – and knowing that he was the first one to do so. Eventually, Coën would join him in bed with his Wolves, or sometimes with the Cats, but mostly, he preferred to have Jaskier to himself, so he could focus his not inconsiderable attention on his human lover. Jaskier had even run into Coën on the Path before, and spent the night with the Griffin, instead of Geralt. He would never know if all Griffins were given to this sort of devotion and adoration, but Jaskier didn’t need to. He had Coën, and he was grateful for that.

The Manticores were the most mysterious of the schools, and Jaskier had resigned himself to never meeting one, when Zerrin stalked in through the doors of Kaer Morhen, and growled, grumpier than usual – because following behind him, just far enough to be too much trouble to fight, was a Witcher he didn’t recognise, grinning from ear to ear at the big Bear’s annoyance. Jaskier had liked him immediately, from his clear amusement at teasing the others, to his looks; skin dark, body broad but trim, and neatly-kept stubble. When he smiled, it was easy to see the four teeth that had been filed into sharp points, and the yellow of his eyes looked almost acidic. He introduced himself as Terik, then asked if Jaskier was the bard everyone talked about bedding, without a shred of embarrassment about him. When Jaskier had nodded, almost too astonished to speak, Terik had pulled him close and kissed him, without preamble, and Jaskier had jumped as a large hand settled on his buttock, allowing the Manticore to pull him closer. When that honey-sweet voice had growled filthy things into his ear, Jaskier had allowed himself to melt against that strong body. Maybe this was how Manticores courted, he’d thought, with their bodies and dirty talk, rather than with material goods or strict manners. Either way, he’d gleefully let Terik lift him into his arms and carry him off to a spare bedroom, where they hadn’t even made it to the bed, Terik simply opening him up while holding him against the door with one hand, before fucking into him slow and deep, like a long-lost lover, while Jaskier wailed and clung to his armour.

The next winter, Terik brought a friend, Aster, whose dark skin was contrasted by a shock of white blond curls to one side of her head, and the other side buzzed down short. She was shorter than Terik, and wider, with broad hips and large breasts, and no less attractive, and the two Manticores had gleefully divested Jaskier of his clothing and had him right there in the hall, Aster beneath Jaskier, keeping him from the cold floor, and Terik above him. Once they’d helped him find his clothes – aside from his smalls, which he was sure he saw Terik hiding in one of his bags – and covered him up again, Aster revealed that the Manticores did have a courting tradition, but it was one that didn’t translate well to humans. They gifted toxic flowers – like the one she herself was named after – and rare poisons, none of which would be useful or safe for a bard. But they could bring him flowers, if he wanted, she’d said; pressed and dried, perhaps, or some rare plants that didn’t mind the cold of Kaedwen winters. She called him ‘little flower’ and said those of them named after plants needed to stick together, and Jaskier adored her instantly.

When the Manticores returned, they brought Jaskier flowers, as discussed, but also some live plants that they could grow indoors, so long as they kept them warm. Aster and Terik kissed him, and Aster commented that the only thing that could get a hothouse flower like herself into the Blue Mountains for the cold season was someone as open and giving and sweet as him. Jaskier had blushed so hard he’d gone lightheaded, and let her take him to bed, pressing him down on soft sheets and opening him up for a gorgeous cock, carved of the bone from some huge monster, the bulb of it sitting inside her and driving her to her peak. Once she’d finished with him, she called for Terik, and Jaskier was filled again, wrapped up in two furnace-like bodies as he shook apart for them, still clutching the pressed aster he’d been given at the door, trying to keep his hands gentle enough not to crush it, just as his lovers were careful to be gentle with him. The Manticores didn’t come every year, and were rarer visitors to the keep, but whenever he saw them heading up the trail, heard Terik’s bawdy jokes and Aster’s voice low and full of promise, Jaskier’s heart soared.


End file.
